No, Mama. Mr. Hank wanted us to have it. He was trading us for the cookies. Brenda let out a laugh. It was a sharp, ugly sound. A billion dollars for cookies. This is better than I thought. We’ll have her declared simple-minded. This is a slam dunk. That will be enough. General Sinclair roared. The command in his voice was absolute.
It was the voice of a man who had sent men into battle. The porters and their lawyer fell silent. Mr. Graves, you will file your motions and I will file my responses, but you will not threaten my clients. You will not threaten a 10-year-old child in my office. He pointed to Mary and Emma. These two people are the primary beneficiaries of Henry Porter’s estate.
As such, they are my sole focus. Hank, my client, was aware you would do this. He was not a foolish man. He was, in fact, prepared. He looked at the leather journal in Emma’s hand. That journal, Brenda scoffed. A dead man’s diary from 1944. It’s meaningless. You are mistaken, the general said. Hank was a meticulous man.
He knew a contest was coming. He knew you would claim he was scenile. He knew you would claim undue influence. So he prepared a defense. He looked at Emma. Emma, look at the journal again. The other one. Emma looked confused. There’s just Oh. Tucked inside the leather cover of the old journal was another book.
A simple spiralbound cheap notebook, the kind Emma used for school. She pulled it out. That, the general said, is Hank’s journal, the one he was writing in St. Jude’s. He looked at Brenda. It’s his own deposition, a daily record. He wrote down every single day he was in that hospital, what he ate, which nurse was on duty, what he watched on television, and most importantly, who visited him.
The general walked to his desk. He had it notorized every single week by a private notary I sent in. It’s a legal document, a two-year long record of his sound mind and of your absolute total abandonment. That is the arsenal, as he called it. That is what we will present in court. Brenda Porter’s face was a mask of hate.
She had no response. Now, the general said, “This meeting is over. Security will show you out.” The drive from the general’s office was silent. Mary and Emma sat in the back of the black town car. Mary was still shaking. Emma was holding the foot locker on her lap. I’m sorry, mama. Emma said, “Sorry for what, baby?” “For getting us in trouble.
” “For for the money.” Mary looked at her daughter. Shesaw the Medal of Honor. She saw the challenge coins. She saw the journals. and she felt a new strength. A strength she didn’t know she had. It was the strength Elias Carter must have had. It was the strength Hank had. Don’t you be sorry, Mary said. She took her daughter’s hand. You did nothing wrong.
You were kind. And those those people are angry because they don’t know how to be kind. The car was not going to their apartment. Mary knew the way. This was a different direction. General, where where are we going? She asked. One last thing, the general said from the front seat. Hank’s final provision.
He knew they would try to find you. He knew your apartment was not safe. He wanted you to be secure. The car turned onto a quiet treelined street. The houses were not mansions. They were simple brick and wood single family homes, the kind with small, neat lawns and flower beds. The car pulled into the driveway of a small, clean white house.
It had a bright blue door and a small porch. This, the general said, is your new home. It’s paid for. The utilities are on. The pantry is stocked. Hank owned this property for 30 years. He said it was his quiet place. He left it to you. He wanted you to be safe while the war commenced. Mary looked at the house. It was the first home she had ever owned.
She began to cry, but this time it was a different kind of tears. It was the tears of a dam breaking, a dam of fear, of rent payments, of late notices, of being invisible. It all washed away. That night, Emma sat on the floor of her new room. It was bigger than her old room. It smelled like fresh paint. She put the foot locker at the end of her bed.
She opened the spiral notebook, Hank’s journal. She read the first entry. The handwriting was shaky but angry. August 14th. The new place is as bad as I’d hoped. The jello is a crime against humanity. The walls are pale green. I hate green. No one has visited. Good. She turned the page. August 15th. Still no one. The son, Junior, has not called. Brenda has not called.
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